In Lingo part 1
by Wombat-Slayer
Summary: Richard wakes up in a strange place. Follow him as he discovers what the people of Lingo plan to do with his life in this twisted tale very similar to the Christmas Carol by Dickens


----Part 1----

Richard's alarm did not wake him up that morning. In fact, for the first time in many years, nothing woke Richard up that morning except Richard's body, which was tired of sleeping (if such a thing were possible). He first yawned and shielded his eyes from the bright light that must have been the brightest morning he'd ever seen. He stretched and reached for the "alarm off" button on his alarm clock, which was always on the nightstand beside him. But his hand met only air and he continuously groped in vain. Richard felt blindly around for the alarm, eyes still moist and unadjusted to the blinding light, and very soon, a dawning realization came over Richard: his alarm was not in fact beeping, buzzing, or humming, so there was no need to turn off the alarm. At first, this was a relief since Richard disliked the harsh, shrill noise he woke up to every day. But, a man of time and schedules, a second dawning realization struck Richard: his alarm wasn't going off, and therefore, it could be any time of the day. And by the searing light Richard was only just adjusting to, he guessed midday. This was bad- very bad. He had places to go, people to see. Richard turned quickly over and threw his legs over the side of his bed only for his heels to meet painfully with a hard surface that felt something like cold marble. Richard winced. He looked down at a pure white floor. He blinked and rubbed his eyes- this definitely wasn't the blue carpet his wife had picked out. He looked around at his surroundings, but to his extreme discomfort and confusion, Richard found he had no surroundings.

The walls were blank- the purest white- and would be seemingly endless were it not for the light casting shadows upon the corners. The light? Where was it coming from? He saw no lamps or ceiling lights. The only irregularity in the walls was a single white man-sized door that Richard might have overlooked had it not been for the darkness seeping through the barely visible cracks around it. Richard found almost unsurprisingly that it was knob-less. He craned his head over his shoulder only to find pure white sheets on a pure white bed- a bed, he was discovering, that was increasingly becoming more uncomfortable on his backside. He got up (more carefully this time) to his feet and shivered from the cold floor beneath his feet. A draft was caught under the white robes he was wearing. He thought he had spilled coffee on these plain white robes weeks ago; he had told Carol to throw them out. He shivered from the cold air draft and tightened the robes around his body. The entire room seemed to have this effect on him. It was sterile like a doctor's office.

Was this a practical joke? Richard found that he could almost stretch his arms across the room and touch both walls. The room was hardly 7' by 7' he guessed: a perfect clean, white, and cold cubical. Not much different from the poor bastards at work he thought to himself. Another draft of cold air from an invisible air vent made him shiver. Richard scratched his head and sat back down on his stiff bed. It was too genuine to be a joke- this had to be a dream… just a dream. And he was so tired suddenly... he let his head drop to the pillow and didn't wake until…

--

… a hinged creaked. Creak wasn't the right word- cleanly swung on its hinges would best describe the sound. Whatever the sound though, Richard's head shot up. He glanced suddenly around the room and sighed deeply, let down at finding that he was still in his bizarre dream. Something was different though; his eyes found the base of the little white door. A perfect little white envelope was sitting neatly there. Richard rolled out off his bed, forgetting how close it was to the ground. His back complained as it struck the floor and he groaned loudly. He recovered and retrieved the envelope on his knees by the door. After tearing open the envelope, Richard read a tidy black-type message:

Dear Richard F. Worthington

We will see you now

Sincerely,

Us

Richard furled his brow. His office-senses told him it was in a font that wasn't Times New Roman or Arial, and the size was somewhere between 12.5 and 13.5. No one he knew in his office typed like that. So who would see him now? And when was "now"? His question received an answer as the door suddenly swung violently toward him. Richard, still sitting, jerked backwards and fell back on his hands and buttocks.

"Richard Frederick Worthington?" A nasally female voice droned loudly. Richard looked up at a heavy-set female body directly above him: a secretary that would have never made it in his office.

"Uh- present?" Richard spoke awkwardly raising his hand and rising awkwardly to his feet.

"Follow me." Richard jumped. He had mistaken the mask for a real face at first; the intruder's face was covered from her nose up in an ornate ceramic bird mask. It was multi-colored red, blue, and green, and garnished with purple feathers at her crown. The beak-like nose protruded an exaggerated 4 inches from her face. Richard could hear her breathing through the hollow beak amplified. It was congested and labored as if she had a cold. What he noticed most was her dark brown almond-shaped eyes. They seemed to be drilling into his head for information.

"What?" Richard asked cocking his head to one side. This is so weird he thought to himself simultaneously.

A hollow sigh of annoyance: "Follow me young man."

"Where am I?" Richard demanded. But he realized this question was futile- he was obviously in a dream, and dreams don't ever reveal their secrets. He'd wake up soon and forget the whole thing.

This is so weird, the words echoed again in his mind.

The bird-lady pivoted and started walking out the door. Richard followed, keeping right on her heels. He wasn't sure if he was even surprised to find the air outside his room wasn't any different from the air in the hallway: sterile and still, but somehow drafty and cold at the same time. They seemed to be walking down a thin bleach-white hallway filled with doors similar to Richard's room. He didn't know where he was, and he really wanted too. Richard was used to knowing everything and getting everything his own way. The bird-lady was walking faster now, a brisk pace that Richard only kept on truly busy days in the office. The pace picked up even faster to that of a light jog. This was ridiculous. Why was following a large woman wearing a mask through seemingly endless white corridors? That in itself seemed madness. The bird lady was running now almost faster than Richard could keep pace with. How could someone so big move so fast and not tire? Richard's breath was getting heavier and he felt even more claustrophobic in the narrowing hallway.

"Stop!" he wheezed. She didn't even flinch. The bird-lady was sprinting now, leaving Richard further and further behind. Her legs were moving at a supernatural speed. Richard regretted eating pizza that night; whatever kind of dream this was he didn't like it. Then again, Richard had never liked dreams. Richard liked only things he could control and shape to his purposes. Running breathlessly down an endless hallway was not a controllable situation.

But all of Richard's frustrations were brought suddenly to a halt as a door suddenly swung into the hallway right behind the speeding bird-lady, blotting her from view. There was no avoiding it, and like a slow-motion car accident, Richard saw the door totally obscure his pathway and hardly felt the dull thud of his skull connecting with a metallic white door. His head snapped back violently and he landed flatly on his back. Richard slept deeply.

--

Richard doesn't like his coffee black. Depending on the size of the disposable creamers the supplier had ordered, he usually prefers two servings and (approximately) three tablespoons of sugar. It also can't be too hot. The coffee is always to be just under hot and not too cool so that he can feel it trickle down his throat and settle warm into his stomach. He always drank his coffee this way. It was the way his coffee is always given to him, and so he scoffs when Milton, the new office assistant, hands him a cup of steaming, dark, and bitter coffee.

"What the hell is this?" Richard asks, clearly annoyed. He holds up the mug and cocks his head to one side, narrowing his eyebrows. His white and black pinstriped suit and his flamboyant yellow tie look almost comical against the plain gray office walls.

Milton raises a bushy eyebrow- seemingly the only eyebrow on his face. Richard notes that Milton should probably pluck his uni-brow in the future and makes another note to himself to send out an email to all employees concerning proper hygiene. "It's your coffee, sir."

"Don't call me sir, Milton it makes me feel old. Call me Mr. Worthington. And this coffee," he states blandly holding the mug over a plant and letting it pour out over the rim and into the fertilizer, "is unacceptable. I take two creamers and three spoons of sugar. Get it right." Richard enunciates the last three words carefully and sternly. You always have to be a total asshole to the new guys- to make them feel stupid and inferior. It ensures immediate obedience and loyalty later. Milton's eyes are on the coffee that's pouring onto the crappy office decoration.

He looks back at Richard, like someone trying to understand another language. "Yes sir- er- Mr. Worthington." He scurries back towards the front of the building and a second chance. Richard chuckles quietly to himself and turns to his colleague for praise and approval.

"I'm telling you, Dick, you've just got to keep them in line," Terry says shaking his head approvingly. Terry is a big man- bigger than Richard wearing a too-small gray suit and a bright red tie.

Richard scoffs. "Who even drinks black coffee? You don't hand your superior a cup of shitty black coffee. It just doesn't make sense. We pay them to do the grunt work here."

"No respect, Dick," Terry echoes. Richard sighs and the two men stand awkwardly in the middle of a busy hallway, Richard still holding an empty mug. The leftover steam drifts lazily into the ventilation shaft above them. Terry looks at him expectantly.

"Right; the pitch." Richard continues his brisk walk down the path to the back office. It's his favorite office- the only one in area B with a window; Terry follows. As they walk, a slender, attractive secretary passes them. Richard hands her the mug and says as if he were in some kind of hurry, "Jessica, be a doll and take this down to the lounge, I'm running late." Terry flashes a dashing smile. He can only hope one day that he can be as smooth as Richard, as in control as good ole' Dick. He idly wonders if Richard has had sex with her and how many times. In the back of his head, he feels even a little jealously under all his admiration for a man so in control of his environment. Though close in age the two, to Terry, Richard is the close to the pinnacle of corporate achievement. He was still cleaning up after the big guys, which explained why his superior wasn't talking to Richard now and he was going to hear a business proposition instead.

They were reaching the door at the end of the hallway now. The words inscribed on the plaque that hung from the door read: "Richard F. Worthington". Terry nods his approval at the oak-patterned door covering. "This is more or less my office here," Richard says casually, "or at least one of the many." He laughs. Terry forces a chuckle but doesn't really think it's that funny. Richard reaches into his pocket and removes a chain lined with many keys and key-cards. He flips through all the keys and finds one buried in the midst of them- a single gold colored key with many teeth. It slides smoothly into the key hole and the two men are in the room.

"Nice, Dick, the oak is adds good touch" Terry says, amused. Other than the table and a large mounted dear head at the head, the room is plain. But still it seems attractive in its simplicity. The large oak table in the middle is glossy and long. All the chairs that line the sides of it are mounted to the floor and look comfortable and appeasing to the eye. The chair at the head is wheeled and larger than the rest. Richard plops into that chair and sighs, seeming deeply satisfied in his half-slouched position. Terry nods and smiles.

"Oh yes, four hundred dollars for this baby. I wouldn't trade it for a Tempur-Pedic mattress," Richard states proudly. Terry can only imagine how comfortable the chair is. Maybe if he's lucky, his old buddy Dick will let him sit in it and feel what it's like to be at the head of so long and large a table and even larger a corporation. But Terry settles for a smaller chair to the left of Richard's: it is soft and comfortable, and his feet barley connect with the ground enough that he feels he could comfortably get in and out if he needed to. Richard's employees' offices must be just as richly furnished he concludes. Richard sits up suddenly, dignified and takes a large manila envelope from a hidden drawer under the ledge of the oak table. "Now, time for the reason I brought you here." Terry straightens himself. The manila folder looks official and brimming with news. He wonders what Richard has to offer the company he represents.

Richard pulls the stapled packet from the fold of the folder. Slowly. For effect. He can almost hear Terry's heart beating with greedy anticipation. Terry's pen is nervously tapping on the oak finish. Richard just then decides he feels no remorse for the blow he's about to deal. This will be easy, Richard thinks to himself. He slides the papers towards Terry and begins to sugar-coat a deal any other shrewd business man would refuse.

--

Richard's head hurt- a lot. He sat up and rubbed his temples and winced.

"Careful; your bones are so soft and fragile, you wouldn't want to hurt yourself more than you already have," a smooth voice came from behind. Richard stood up suddenly and spun around. As he did, he noticed the white blur of the walls. Before he noticed the man in the white office chair he first noticed he was still dressed in the same robes and then that he was still in his stupid dream. He turned to his right then and noticed something not so usual about his surroundings. The couch he had been reclining in (how he got there, he still wasn't sure) was bright red with white seams running along the edges of the fabric. It looked very much like a psychologist's couch- the one he had to sit on to be tested before he got his current job. "You took a nasty fall," the voice said again. Richard turned back to the man on the couch. His eyes widened.

What he saw was so strangely familiar and bizarre. Everything about the man before him seemed normal (he was wearing a white tux with a white tie and white slacks) except one thing: his face was covered by a bird-like mask. It was six different shades of blue, and extending from the porcelain mask was a long beak-like nose.

"Can you understand me? Your records show that your primary language is Human-English. Is that correct?" Richard stared at the mask. His head was still throbbing. "Hágale habla Español?" the bird-man asked in another language Richard guessed was Spanish. "Parlez-vous Français? Sprechen sie Deutsches?"

"Stop," Richard muttered, "I can understand English." Richard suddenly realized what was so familiar about the man wearing the bird mask. His eyes revealed his confusion.

"You took a nasty fall while following Gladys. It's okay; she walks at a brisk pace. She forgets most of our clients are human" the masked man explained. He saw the purple knot on Richard and winced. "Someone very careless opened that door, and appropriate measures have been taken to ensure it won't happen to anyone else again."

"Why was that bitch running in the first place?" Richard asked, suddenly very unhappy about his near-concussion. Inquisitive eyes gazed deeply into his.

"Your choice of words tells me you're feeling heightened anger emotions. Is this correct?" The bird-man asked.

"Of course! I'm pissed! She told me to follow her and then ran off!" said Richard.

The bird-man starred back again at Richard; his almond-shaped eyes looked deep in thought behind the eerie mask. Richard shuddered at the familiarity. Perhaps Gladys and this… person were related. "You took a nasty fall while following Gladys. It's okay; she walks at a brisk pace."

"I know. You said that already."

"May I ask you some questions, Richard F. Worthington?"

"How do you know me? How does everyone here know my name?" Richard asked, indignant and confused.

"This name is what you prefer to be called by isn't it?"

At first the question didn't entirely make sense. Suddenly Richard's mind was filled with images of his desk plaques. All of them were engraved: "Richard F. Worthington". He didn't know why or how he suddenly remembered this, but it did seem to make sense.

"Yes, I suppose."

"You sound unsure."

"Yes- for sure." Richard was getting frustrated. He always got frustrated easily. This dream was tiring him.

"Would you mind reclining on the couch Richard F. Worthington and answering some questions for me?" the bird-man asked professionally. Was he a shrink? What kind of dream contained a pychsologist wearing a bird mask that talked like a computer?

"First answer my questions," Richard demanded calmly, trying to regain some of his composure.

"My answers are limited"

"Then so are mine. What's your name?"

"Edgar."

"Who do you work for, Edgar?"

"Him." Richard for some reason shivered suddenly at that. When would these people learn to turn the heat up?

"Will you relinquish your thoughts now, Richard F. Worthington?"

Richard furled his brow. "Sure, why not?" He laid down carefully on the red couch taking extra care to rest his head carefully on the red white-laced arm rest. It was only slightly indented from most likely countless heads that had lay previously upon it's gentle fabric. He felt his head get light suddenly. He thought of the hit he had taken and was worried. "I might need a doctor…" Richard said uneasily.

"You do not require medical attention, Richard F. Worthington. Fatigue is a side effect of The Couch. Just relax. The sooner you do, the sooner I can pick your brain for answers," Edgar stated matter-of-factly.

Pick my brain?!

Richard panicked. He tried to move his body, but his muscles didn't respond. His vision was darkening, his thoughts swimming into each other in a jumble of memories and musings. He was blacking out. He began to feel that familiar fogginess as reality folded into his dreams.


End file.
